Disorientation
by Shoogalooga
Summary: John's POV in the moments after Sherlock jumped. This could be a longer story if you like it. Could stay a one-shot.


**So this is just something I thought about. John's point of view of what happened in the moments after Sherlock jumped. This does have the potential to become more I suppose:D**

**I don't own Sherlock:( or John:( or anyone :(**

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"Goodbye John," Sherlock said into the phone. I stared up at his figure on the rooftop, squinting into the light.

"No, don't," I said haltingly. I could see him moving slightly on the ledge. Then the worst thing happened: he jumped. All my air flew out of my lungs in one breath. My mind was racing. "Sherlock!" I made my way toward Bart's as fast as I could. As I ran through the road, something came up beside me and hit me, throwing me to the ground. I lay on the ground, confused, disoriented. _Sherlock_, I thought. I forced myself to get up off the ground. I was not going to leave Sherlock.

As the sidewalk in front of Bart's came into my view, my mind stopped working altogether. There was a crowd of people blocking me from what I knew was Sherlock lying on the ground. As I got closer I tried to push my way through. The group of people stopped me. I could see blood. So much blood. It pooled on sidewalk, making its way through the cracks. "Let me though, he's my friend. He's my friend!" I tried to make the people understand. I reached for Sherlock, trying to make any contact at all. Someone turned Sherlock over onto his back, bringing his face into my view. His hair was soaked with his blood. It hung like it was wet after a shower. His eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, more peaceful than I had ever seen him in my life. Unnaturally peaceful, as Sherlock was not a peaceful man. Blood was splattered over his face. It was too much for me to take in. I sagged toward the ground. Someone around me caught me as I drooped. "No. God, no." Sherlock couldn't be dead. I needed Sherlock. I needed my friend.

People rushed toward Sherlock with a gurney, pulling him onto it and rushing back into the hospital. I watching it all from my view on the ground. My eyes were blurry, but I wasn't crying. I had seen too many people die to cry over this. Too many good people have died around me. The people around me were looking at me, trying to make sure I was going to make it. I waved them away.

I stood up from the ground and looked around. I had just lost my best friend. He had said he was a fake, but I knew better. There was no way that the man I had known was a fake in any way. Yet he had admitted it. I knew that something was up. I heard police sirens coming toward where I was standing. Obviously someone who had seen Sherlock jump had called them. I saw Lestrade get out of one of the cars. He looked at me with a realization. He and his crew made their way toward the building. I followed suit. I had to see what was on that roof. When I had made it to the door, Greg stopped me.

"John, maybe you should stay here. Maybe go back to your flat," he said soothingly.

I just swallowed and tried to push my way past him. He blocked me once more.

"Are you sure you want to see what's up here?" His eyes searched my face.

I didn't respond, I just looked him straight in the eye. As he stared back, I saw his lips part slightly. He nodded and let me through the door. On the roof, his team was canvasing, trying to find anything they had missed. Anderson came over to Lestrade.

"We found a mobile by the ledge. So far that's it." Lestrade just nodded and made his way over to the ledge with Anderson. I walked into the open and stood there, looking around. What had caused Sherlock to jump? And why had he said he was a fake? It didn't make any sense to me. I knew something was missing. Lestrade made his way back over to me, an evidence bag in his hand. Sherlock's phone. The phone looked a bit beat up, but the last time I had seen it, it had been pristine.

"We're thinking he dropped it before he…" Lestrade trailed off, looking at me and not knowing what to say. "John, let someone take you home. You looking like you're dead on your feet." I just sighed and nodded slightly. Greg called one of his men over and had him escort me home. I sat silent in the car. The officer didn't try to make any small talk and I wasn't going to start a conversation. He stopped outside the flat.

221 B. It wasn't the same without Sherlock. It seemed empty, lifeless. I made my way up to the flat, trying to evade Mrs. Hudson. She would have questions I just couldn't answer. I sat in my usual chair, just staring. Beneath me our—my—landlady bustled around. She was blissfully ignorant. I leaned my head into my hand. I had to be missing something about what happened on that rooftop. The flat was eerily silent. There were no sounds of clinking glass in the kitchen, no hauntingly beautiful violin pieces being made, no frustrated corrections being made at the television. The silence was deafening. Sitting in that empty flat, it finally settled on me: Sherlock was dead. I was alone. Again. Only this time, I wasn't sure how I was going to make it alone. This time I wasn't sure I could do it.

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**So that's it. It's a bit short. Sorry about that. But rate and review, let me know if I should keep going with this story!**


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